


Betwixt the Tufts of Snow

by belial



Series: Frost at Midnight - the Coleridge Remix [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), captain america: the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: Christmas, Feels, Fluff, M/M, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:35:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1577048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belial/pseuds/belial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, how Bucky finds three Christmas presents for Steve.  (In "The Sole Unquiet Thing" 'verse.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Betwixt the Tufts of Snow

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small snippet from the Frost at Midnight Universe. If you haven't read, "The Sole Unquiet Thing", this will not make sense.

You’d forgotten how beautiful New York at Christmastime could be – the windows at Macy’s gleam with candy displays, twinkling colored lights, and toys of all shapes and sizes. The commercialism isn’t the only part of the glow, though; you see people smiling at each openly, and can hear children screaming with excitement at the prospect of “Santa” coming in less than a month’s time. 

You pull your battered leather jacket around you more tightly, glad to be wearing it and thick gloves, and walk down the avenue like you own it. You’re still not comfortable in large crowds, but you’re adjusting… and no way is Stark going to prevent you from buying Steve your own damn Christmas present the old-fashioned way. Now that you’ve got a little money to spend, there’s only one person you want to spend it on.

Someone slams into your side and you grunt, catching the man as he goes slipping on ice. “Damn it!” he says. “I’m sorry!”

You quickly check for your wallet and keys before releasing him; he meanwhile stares at you, wide-eyed, and it takes you a moment to realize he recognizes you. “Um?” you say, and he blinks. 

“You’re him. One of the Avengers,” he says, and he grins so hard it looks like his face is gonna split in two. “Barnes.”

You nod, glance around to make sure no one’s overheard you. So far, so good. He says, “My name’s David Jacobson, and it’s a real honor to meet you. You and Captain America saved my little brother’s life during your last visit to Riverside Children’s Hospital.”

You raise an eyebrow – Steve asked you to go along with him doing outreach – but you don’t remember saving anyone’s life. He must pick up on your confusion because he says, “Not literally. But he was so excited by your visit that it gave him the energy to fight his cancer into remission. You guys saved his life.”

You duck your head, embarrassed. “We didn’t do anything to make that happen,” you reply, still hating how uncomfortable you are with other people. “He did the hard part himself.”

“I know, but thank you just the same.”

He doesn’t ask for your autograph, doesn’t ask for a picture – it’s weird to you, how different people seem to want different parts of your life… and here was a guy who just wanted to say thanks. You watch him walk away, and as he turns the corner you can’t help but wave to him, and enjoy the way he grins back at you like you’ve just parted from an old friend.

You end up buying Steve’s first present an hour later – a digital camera and all its cables, so the next time the two of you go out exploring the city together, the two of you can take photos of each other in the moment.

Sometimes it’s good to have reminders that not everyone will live as long as the two of you will – but better to capture the here and now while you’ve got it.

**~~~~**

The next outing doesn’t offer you any immediate clues for gift-giving. You’d taken a taxi to Brooklyn and have been wandering the streets looking in windows, because as much as you hate the cold is as much as you love sidewalk shopping. You have a knitted hat on today (early Christmas gift from Jemma) that covers your ears and keeps your hair out of your face, and you consider something similar for Steve… except you have no idea how to knit, or whether or not one of the girls would be making him something like it.

“Can I help you?”

You’ve stopped, you realize, in front of a tiny bakery on Flatbush Avenue, about three hundred feet from the Botanical Gardens. You look at the woman in the doorway and say, “No ma’am. Just walking.”

“Well come in, dear, you look half-frozen and lost,” she says, and rolls her eyes at him. “Lord, the boys these days…”

You grin, you can’t help it, and follow her into the shop. Except for the two of you and Billie Holiday on the radio, the place is deserted. She shoos you toward the back of the bakery, sits you at one of two chairs parked next to the ovens. “You just sit there a minute and thaw.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

“What in the world are you doing wandering around in the weather today?” she asks. “Two weeks until Christmas, and you’re intending to catch your death of cold? That’s not a good present for your sweetheart or your friends.”

Her name, you find out, is Isabella ‘call me Auntie Bell, child’, and she’s originally from Georgia, and that she’s lived in Brooklyn with her husband for the last thirty years. As she talks to you, she kneads dough that’s almost as dark as her skin. “What is that?” you ask, gesturing at the blob in front of her.

“Lord, child, you’ve never seen pumpernickel bread before?”

You shake your head no, and she clucks at you. “James,” she says – and how she ever worked your name out of you, you’ve no idea – “Go wash your hands and help me knead this.”

You shrink back against the oven, preparing to get up and leave, and she has the guts to block you in. “You’ve got something against bread?”

You blow out a breath and take off your coat, revealing the gleaming silver arm beneath. Neither of you say anything for a moment, until she rolls her eyes at you again and says, “I ain’t gonna let you do it without gloves on, child, so you don’t have to worry about your fancy arm there getting dirty. My son lost both his legs in Desert Storm, so don’t you be handin’ me any excuses about bein’ able to work. You hear me?”

You scramble to the sink, finally getting up the nerve to say, “Why’d you invite me in?”

“Child, you were standin’ in the snow, starin’ inta space, lost in the world just like my son does sometimes. The Lord put you in my path just as surely as he does everything else. Now here,” she says, guiding you to the countertop. “You lift the dough from the back, and fold it forward onto itself, and then press just like this…”

When you leave, you’ve got three boxes of assorted cookies for the common room, a complimentary loaf of pumpernickel, and the recipe for the most amazing cinnamon rolls you’ve ever tasted so you can make them for Steve on Christmas morning. Because if you didn’t realize it from your hat, handmade gifts are some of the best kind.

**~~~~**

“Damn sons of the devil!” Steve shouts at the television, and you cackle at him. “Those… those rotten cheaters!”

“Really? Rotten cheaters?”

He glares at you. “You makin’ fun of my trash talk, Barnes?”

Oops, now you’ve done it. You’ve mocked his mocking and he’s pissy about it. “I’m just sayin’, you could probably do better than to call them sons of the devil. Even ‘sons of bitches’ or ‘sons of whores’ seems more appropriate.”

“But that’s derogatory to their mothers more than them,” he fusses, flapping a hand at you. “I don’t see why insulting their mothers gets me anywhere. And that’s not polite talk, anyway.”

You flop on the couch next to him and stick your feet in his lap. Seven days until Christmas, and you’ve still got shopping to do. “Maybe I should get you a book of swears for Christmas,” you muse.

“You’d better enjoy your nights in our bed now, ‘cause you’ll be sleeping on the sofa for a long time, Buck.”

You grin. “But who’re you gonna stick those ice block feet of yours on, huh? And who’s gonna be there when you want to be the big spoon?”

“I’m sure I could more easily give that up then all the snoring I have to put up with.”

You jab a finger into his side and he squeaks. “I’m just saying, your swearing could use a little practice.”

“I kinda like the way I swear,” he admits. “People today, they’re so ready to go around yelling all sorts of things that aren’t fit for company. Sometimes it’s nice to just stick with things like ‘punk’ and ‘jerk’. And if that makes me outdated, well I’ll just have to live with that.”

You stare at the side of his face for a moment, because he won’t look at you. “Hey,” you say, nudging him. “I was just teasing you, Stevie, but… but I get it.”

He glances at you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, Nat already teases the both of us for listening to records instead of MP3s, and the fact that I still can kick your a… butt at checkers, and the fact that neither of us are so great going out for huge meals when we both remember what it was like to be half-starving. So I get it. There _are_ some things about the past that I never want to remember, but there’re some things may be worth holding onto. And if you want to swear like it’s the twenties, then who am I to say anything about it?”

He grins, wide and beautiful, and something catches in your chest. “Thanks, Buck.”

“Yep.”

You both watch the baseball game in silence, until he says, “Feet like ice, huh?”

“And I was in cryostasis, Steven, your feet could be classified as lethal weapons.”

He pounces on you, digging his fingers into your sides and laughing as you squirm away from him. The roughhousing quickly morphs into something else, and you open your mouth to him when he kisses you. Clothes go flying in different directions; when you get on top of him and he spreads his legs for you, you have to hold onto the base of your dick so you don’t go off like a rocket before you even slide inside him. “Rotten cheater,” you croak, as he crooks a finger at you.

“You better believe it, sweetheart.”

You make a mental note to go buy two tickets to a Mets game as soon as possible. 

Like maybe tomorrow morning.

END


End file.
